


Truth or Dare

by foxtrot77



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-typical language, Chorus Arc, First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, this is literally like pure fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-26
Updated: 2017-12-26
Packaged: 2019-02-22 05:06:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13159881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77
Summary: The Reds are enjoying Donut's weekly wine and cheese hour when they decide to play truth or dare.





	Truth or Dare

When Donut asks the question, Simmons chokes on his wine.

“My _what_?” the cyborg sputters.

“Your first _kiss_ ,” Donut repeats patiently, tossing his head to flick some fallen hair out of his eyes. The pink soldier is perched on the steel countertop, glass of wine in hand.

Grif says nothing, his mouth full of cheese and crackers, relishing Simmons’s deer-in-headlights expression as his face turns the color of his armor.

It’s midnight in Armonia, and the three of them are enjoying wine and cheese in the dimly lit kitchen in the Feds’ base (While the Feds and News are technically on the same side now, that doesn’t mean they’re about to live together). Simmons is to the left of Donut, sitting on a chair he’s pulled from the dining hall, and on Donut’s right, Grif has made himself comfortable on a crate full of MREs.

Normally Donut’s wine and cheese hour is much earlier in the day, but between Wash and Carolina’s rigorous training regimen and the strategy meetings (Grif likes to think of them as strategy squabbles) with Kimball and Doyle, they don’t get much free time before sundown.

Speaking of, Grif hopes this wraps up soon so they can go the fuck to bed. Free food and alcohol are nice and all, but Grif has sacrificed enough of his beauty sleep already. Not to mention the ex-Freelancers will have him and the others up at the ass-crack of dawn running drills.

Grif wonders what it will take to get Matthews to wear his armor and train for him. Not much, probably. The cadet is more of a kiss ass than Simmons.

“I want a different question,” Simmons demands.

“But that’s no fun,” Donut whines. With a huff, he adds, “Besides, that’s against the rules!”

Grif sees the torment on Simmons’s face. It’s no secret he’s a stickler for rules and, drunk or not, he’s not about to break any.

“Uhm my first…” Simmons pauses. Takes a swig of wine. Donut jumps in, taking advantage of Simmons’s hesitation.

“Well, _my_ first time—” he begins, but he’s cut off as Sarge bursts into the kitchen. He’s still in full armor, shotgun in hand. His head swivels quickly from Simmons to Donut to Grif, as if he’s surprised to see them there.

Grif is willing to bet the twenty bucks he borrowed from Simmons that Sarge thought this was the armory.

“Oh, _hey_ , Sarge!” Donut sings. “Come join our threesome! We’re playing truth or dare. Simmons is about to tell us his first kiss!”

“I don’t have time tonight, Donut, ‘m too busy plotting the demise of those scumbag mercenaries! And Blue Team! We are surrounded by enemies!” Sarge replies. “Besides, the best kiss is the last kiss—the kiss of _death,_ that is.”

Simmons makes a strangled sound that could be a cough, could be a sob. He’s so red, Grif wouldn’t be surprised if the cyborg short-circuited before he answers Donut’s question.

Grif, of course, doesn’t give two shits about Simmons’s—or anyone’s—first kiss. He sure as hell isn’t going to share his. To be honest, he’s not even sure he remembers. He’s not one for nostalgia.

“Well, Simmons?” Donut persists, grabbing a cube of cheese and popping it in his mouth.

“Just so you know, your mom doesn’t count,” Grif taunts.

“Fuck off, fat ass,” Simmons snaps. “I’ll have you know my first spin the bottle party was in fifth grade.”

“Okay, sure, Simmons,” Grif says, grabbing a handful of crackers. “But did you kiss anyone?”

“Not exactly.” Grif rolls his eyes and Simmons quickly adds, “Hey, it’s not _my_ fault someone broke the bottle!”

“You totally dropped the bottle, didn’t you?”

“Oh, shut up, Grif!”

“Guys. _Guys_!” Donut interrupts.

Grif lays off and Simmons huffs, folds his arms, and glares at the floor. If Grif was into that sort of thing, he’d say Simmons’s pout was adorable.

_If_ he was into that sort of thing.

Did he just think of ‘Simmons’ and ‘adorable’ in the same sentence? Just because it’s true doesn’t mean he’s not shocked by the thought.

“So, if you didn’t kiss anyone _then_ , who _was_ your first kiss?” Donut asks. “Come _on,_ Simmons, don’t be afraid to give it to up, we’re all friends here!”

“It’s a stupid question, this is a stupid fucking game, and I don’t want to play anymore,” Simmons whines.

“Nonsense!” Sarge cries. “Red Team never gives up! Quitting is for Blue Team. And Grif.”

“It’s what I do best, sir,” Grif says.

“Can it, Grif, Simmons is about to win Truth or Dare, securing yet another victory for Red Team!” Sarge barks, waving his shotgun in Grif’s face.

Grif yawns. He’s well aware his lack of reaction pisses off the Red colonel even more, which is why he just stares at the barrel of the gun as it whips back and forth, almost willing it to go off so he can go to the infirmary and sleep. Probably get a few days off too… eat breakfast in bed…

“…uadrant.”

“Huh, what?” Grif snaps out of his reverie.

Simmons is glaring into his empty wine glass. Donut tries, and fails, to hide his smirk behind his own glass as he brings it to his lips. Sarge has lowered his shot gun and is inspecting Grif through narrowed eyes.

Deadpan, Grif gives no outward indication of the panic slowly forming in his stomach. No, not panic. Grif doesn’t _panic_. It’s got to be the cheese.

“The Vegas Quadrant,” Simmons repeats. He tears his gaze from his glass to meet Grif’s eyes.

Oh. _Oh_.

_The Vegas Quadrant_ , Grif thinks. Suddenly he is hit by a memory, and before he can repress it like he usually does with this sort of thing, it digs in and won’t let go.

_He remembers the music and the lights and being so fucking drunk but at the same time more lucid than he’s ever been and he remembers Simmons and how terrible a dancer he is but that’s okay because he’s_ great _at kissing—_

“Stop the daggum presses! Grif is speechless!”

Grif is ripped from his memory as quickly as he was dragged into it, and he blinks once. Twice. Collects himself and crosses his arms.

“I’m just amazed you actually uttered the name _Vegas Quadrant_ ,” he snorts. “Are you sure you’re not making up this kiss to cover up what _really_ happened?”

It’s a lame come back. He knows it. Everyone knows it.

But there’s relief in Simmons’s eyes—at least, Grif thinks so. It’s there and gone so fast he wonders if he imagined it.

Simmons straightens up, rises from his chair, and cries, “You’re just pissed because they didn’t card you, because you look _old_!”

“Whatever, Simmons, at least I don’t have a baby face.”

“I don’t have a baby face! I have a handsome, youthful face!”

“Are ‘handsome’ and ‘youthful’ code for ‘nerdy’ and ‘baby-faced’? Because that’s the only way that description makes sense.”

“Shut up, fat ass!”

“Make me, kiss ass!”

“I fucking hate you!”

“I hate you too!”

By this time both Sarge and Donut have left the room, and one of the guards patrolling the sector sticks his head in, only to sprint away when he sees them.

The memory of the Vegas Quadrant begins to fade. The sooner Grif can forget about it the better; why dwell on it? It was five minutes, maybe seven, and nothing ever came of it. After they left, everything went back to normal. Almost.

Now every time Grif tries to bring it up, Simmons balks. One time, Simmons even ditched him at a fuel station when Grif kept joking about going back. Well, he was half-joking. Sort of. 

What happens in the Vegas Quadrant stays in the Vegas Quadrant.

Dexter Grif has learned to keep his goals simple and his expectations low.

The two of them have stopped shouting. Now they’re just scowling at one another, Grif with his arms crossed, Simmons with his fists clenched at his sides.

“Well, I’m glad we can agree on something, Simmons,” Grif says, breaking the silence. “Now that we’ve declared our undying hate for each other, I’m going to go do what I do best—sleep.”

Grif turned on his heel to go, ready for the sweet release of slumber.

“I thought quitting was what you did best,” Simmons says quietly. Grif freezes but only for a second—had to make sure he remembered to grab his box of crackers is all.

“Meh, what can I say? I’m a man of many talents,” he replies, his back still facing Simmons.

Just as he reaches the door, Simmons says, “It _was_ you, you know. I just… I didn’t want you to know that was my first time, I guess.”

Heart skyrocketing into his throat, Grif about has a heart attack. Grif has had enough of tonight’s emotional roller coaster. What he wants to do is keep walking and go the fuck to sleep. He doesn’t want to think about this shit anymore. It’s _all_ he can think about.

He looks over his shoulder. Simmons is messing with something on his robot arm, cheeks red once more.

“Yeah, I kind of figured when you said ‘Vegas Quadrant’, you fucking nerd. Just hope I didn’t ruin kissing for you forever,” Grif retorts. Hesitates. Then, “You know, I didn’t follow you halfway across the galaxy for shits and giggles, Simmons.”

“Oh, go to bed, dumb ass,” Simmons says. As Grif turns away he catches Simmons’s grin.

For the first time in months, Grif falls asleep almost immediately, a smile on his face.

**Author's Note:**

> So I recently got bitten by the writing bug again, and am finally starting to finish some WIPs. Hope you enjoyed! Concrit always welcome :D


End file.
